Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.

Cas is unable to do more than watch the Winchesters self-destruct until an author puts him back on the right path. Spoilers for season 7. Descriptions of Hell. Heavily implied pre-Dean/Cas

This story runs parallel to, and follows the events described in 'No Way Home' and 'The Devil on Your Shoulder' so I'd encourage you to read those first. It's another dark one, I'm afraid, but it's always darkest before the dawn.

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Día de Castiel (Castiel's Day)

The universe is under the control of a loving purpose, and that in the struggle for righteousness man has cosmic companionship (angels). Behind the harsh appearance of the world there is a benign power – Martin Luther King, Jr

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Día de los Muertos

Cas woke from the dreams, screaming, "Oh Lord, please help me, I beg you!"

He felt disorientated, his innate angelic senses seemed to be telling him he was somewhere in South America although he couldn't pin-point his exact location, but at least he now seemed solid.

It was dark and there were crowds of people watching fireworks over a lake, while nearby sat a multitude of small altars decorated with skulls and offerings of food, drink and small orange flowers.

"Hey, Cas isn't it? How's it going?" called a familiar voice from the dark.

Cas cocked his head in surprise, walking nearer to the figure sitting in a deck chair, face part-turned and hidden from the glow of a nearby bonfire.

"Chuck?" asked Cas, drawing near and recognizing the man.

"It is you! Happy Day of the Dead, man," cheered the author.

Cas almost fell to his knees in relief to at last be visible to someone, "You have to help me, Chuck. I need to get a message to Heaven."

"Oh, you cut off too, huh?" asked Chuck in sympathy, "Not heard a peep from upstairs for a month or so now. Can't say as I miss the headaches though."

"You're no longer a prophet?" Cas gasped.

"S'right, luckily I have a back log of writing and a very loyal, if very small, fan base."

"Nothing?" Cas asked in disappointment.

Chuck looked concerned, "Do I take it that this," he waved in Cas' general direction, "means you guys are back then? Cause if so I'll need to swap back from beer to Tequila."

Cas shook his head, "I have had somewhat of a falling out..."

"Yeah, me too with my publisher," reflected Chuck, "apparently my latest work is too noir for some people's tastes," he grumbled.

Cas cocked his head again, feeling a prickling sense of shame crawling up his spine. "What was the last thing you wrote?" he asked with feeling of dread.

Chuck gave him a long appraising look, a flash of steel behind the normal laid-back slacker attitude. "You... crowning yourself King of this pile of beans," he answered. He took a pull from his drink. "So how's that working out for ya?"

"You know what I was facing, what we were all facing – you of all people should know I had no choice," Cas pleaded, wincing at the whining note he detected in his own voice.

Chuck gave a dry laugh, throwing his empty bottle into the fire, and pulling out a new one from under his chair, "There's always a choice, Cas. Isn't that what you and the Winchesters fought so hard for? What was it Dean called us? Team Free Will."

Chuck took another long pull from his beer, "Do you really want someone telling you what you have to do, when to do it, and how it's all gonna end?"

The angel shifted in discomfort under Chuck's piercing gaze, his lack of an answer speaking volumes.

"Look at me, I'm on vacation. Travelling the world, they say it broadens the mind. You notice how no one says visiting shit is good for you. It's all 'bout the journey, y'see," continued Chuck.

At that moment a series of loud and beautiful fireworks exploded into life over the lake, and they stopped to admire them.

"Sheesh, I'm drunk," he laughed.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, nothing just stops, it's all a journey and stuff happens along the way. Maybe God just sometimes wants us all to find a bit more faith in ourselves and in each other," said Chuck to a thoughtful looking Castiel.

"You asked for a sign, you got one. Dean said don't do it. You did it anyway. You need to fix it, Cas, and move on," said the author, raising his voice in exasperation at a chastised looking Castiel who was staring down at his shoes.

Chuck caught himself, closed his eyes and took a brief calming breath before continuing in a softer tone, "But I guess you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs," he shook his head as he realized he was rambling. "Talking of which, I've signed up for a cookery course tomorrow, I need to get to bed if I'm going to make it up in the morning."

"Of course. Thank you Chuck, you're a good man," said Cas, not thinking to question the sense of being dismissed, as he disappeared with the sound of fluttering wings.

"G'night, Castiel," Chuck sighed in quiet affection.

~#~

After the angel had departed, Chuck sat lost in thought as he finished up his beer and watched the last of the fireworks.

"You're fond of that one, aren't you?" said the man in the next deckchair along, around a mouthful of pan de muerto.

"I'm fond of all them," Chuck muttered. He turned to look at the man, who was thin to the point of being skeletal, "But, yes, I do have a soft spot for him in particular."

"You don't think you spoil him?" asked the thin man in his usual world-weary tone.

"He's been through a tough time. I've put a lot on his shoulders."

"And he's made some pretty big mistakes."

"Oh, well blame the parents..." said Chuck, his voice soft. He thought for a moment, "I blame the mother," he added with a laugh and a twinkle in his eye.

The thin man almost smiled at the joke, "Is it still worth it?" he asked in honest curiosity, "Most of them don't even thank you."

Chuck snorted, "What's the alternative? I won't lie, everyone likes to be appreciated, but that's not what this is about."

"I'm not sure I like you like... this," the thin man said, waving his black walking cane in a gesture that encompassed Chuck, "You're so much less certain than you used to be."

Chuck gave a sad, tight smile, "You can't fit a pint into a quart pot, so you have to pack light – but it has its advantages – sometimes I like not knowing what's going to happen next," he said, his eyes glistening.

He cleared his throat to gather his thoughts, putting on a false front and a fake chuckle, "Anyway, how else are you supposed to reap me?"

"You worry about them, too much. I said this would happen," the thin man said in a kind voice.

"I'm supposed to be vengeful and wrathful," the author sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

The thin man passed him a neatly pressed, monogrammed handkerchief, "Of course you are."

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